


This Is The Sweet Life

by shangrilove



Series: When Life Gives You Cupcakes [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Food Service, Food, Football, Humor, M/M, Nando looks hot in an apron, Real Madrid CF, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shangrilove/pseuds/shangrilove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fernando Torres is a pastry chef, somehow he ends up cooking his way into Sergio’s lonely heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is The Sweet Life

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a story about food really, if you’re diabetic or don’t like sweets, this is probably not for you. Highly inspired by [these](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_me7j5t4sTV1r480vfo2_250.png)  
> [pictures](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_me7j5t4sTV1r480vfo1_250.png) of Fernando in an apron decorating cupcakes. Also the prompt is from [here](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9132.html?thread=2932652#t2932652). Let me know in the comments if you get any of my foodie references. And much love and thanks to [jumping-down](http://jumping-down.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful comments and beta. And to [sparksfly7](http://sparksfly7.livejournal.com/) who always push me to write and to whom I owe baked goods (I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN).

Fernando Torres fell in love at the age of four. It was Mikel’s birthday and even though he didn’t like his scrawny neighbor too much, his mother made him wear a clean t-shirt and go. Most of the neighborhood kids were there, fawning over the birthday boy, except for Fernando. He remembers every time he was jeered, for being too quiet, for having an awkward haircut, for the freckles the other kids believes to be a skin disease. He waits for the adults to bring out the cake; he figures he could sneak home when everyone was fighting over the biggest slice.

He was wrong, as there was no cake. Instead, Mikel’s parents brought out a tray of cupcakes. Each one was a heavenly combination of cake and frosting, perfect in a way that only cupcakes can be.

The one Fernando received was red velvet with a graceful dollop of cream cheese frosting. When he bit into it, his whole world changed.

By the age of ten, Fernando had taken over his kitchen. His dad built him a platform that let him reach the counter, and each year a bit more was sawed off as he saw his son grow both in height and baking prowess. His mother made sure that the kitchen was always stocked with flour, sugar and butter.

“Are you sure you sure you don’t want an Atlético jersey for Christmas? I always see the other boys running down the streets in them.” His grandfather asks worriedly. Well as worriedly as he can be while helping himself to a handful of the baci di dama so fresh that the dark chocolate ganache hasn’t hardened yet.

Fernando reassures him that he’d rather get a bundt pan, preferably ceramic though heavy-duty aluminum is acceptable too.

The neighborhood kids still haven’t learned the meaning of decency, yelling out choruses of “Fat Nando” as they run past his house. Some of them do linger outside, and despite the mean words, Fernando takes it to heart that they can only bask in the delicious scents coming out of his window. The next day when the bell rings for lunch, he unwraps a miniature raspberry meringue tart and relishes each bite slowly, smiling at the jealous stares of his classmates.

He is in high school when his brother Israel gets married. He shoots down their plans to get the cake catered and tells them he will be overseeing desserts at their wedding himself. He spends two months in the kitchen perfecting how to minimize bubbles in macaron shell when everyone else was stressing over university applications. When the day arrives, he unveils a four-tiered wedding cake pieced together with mini macarons and a topper of the couple spun out of golden marzipan. He also gets the phone number of every single one the bridesmaids, even the ones that weren’t single.

He graduates that summer and a week later he’s backpacking to France. All Fernando brings with him is a change of clothes, three aprons and his favorite whisk.

~

Paris is like a beautiful mail order bride that arrives and you realize she’s even more perfect in person than over the internet.

Fernando lives in a rundown flat with two other Spanish guys in the sixth arrondissement. Hot water is available only for four hours during the day and by the amount of males that visits next door, he is positive the neighbor has a side job. He picks up jobs waiting tables at three different bistros, working on his français while hoping to reach a point where any of them will trust him somewhere remotely near the kitchen.

The advantage of working so much at various restaurants means he doesn’t have to spend a lot on food. After he’s done paying off rent, there’s usually something left. He spends that money on his days off, as he traverses the neighborhoods of Paris searching out pâtisseries on empty side streets. He buys croissants so flaky, that when the shopkeeper hands it over, a curl detaches and flies right into his mouth. On his birthday, he waits in line for two hours at the Pierre Hermé flagship, waiting to buy one impeccable macaron that was no bigger than the o made by his thumb and index finger.

A year later, Fernando has moved up to waiting tables, the rest of the time he works in the back kitchen of a patisserie filled with tourists who can’t distinguish a palmier from a pithivier. His customers may eat the only brioche they have in France, but they will go back to where ever they are from, and remember the way that dough broke off in their mouth, yielding to chewy sweetness.

Sometime after that, he gets accepted into the École Supérieure de Cuisine Française. It’s almost like a dream; he doesn’t remember how he made four dozen baguettes during his entrance exam in two hours. He doesn’t remember waiting outside after, with a hundred other hopefuls milling around puffing on those awful French cigarettes. He doesn’t remember the exact way his eyes widened and cheeks flushed, when the portly examiner called out Fernando Torres into the accepted class.

He only remembers the pavlova he had that night to celebrate, the way crisp meringue breaks off into a perfectly consistent center filled with custard and fruit.

~

He graduates with distinction from the world’s best culinary institute when he’s twenty-three and suddenly he wants more.

Paris is still lovely. But now there are too many chefs trying to make it big, stamping out their name and brand, all attempting to be the next Ladureé. Everyone is searching for stardom and the next tv deal, concerned about everything but the deliciousness of their food. Paris was a good relationship, but Fernando is good at knowing when to leave. Now that’s something he has learned from French boys.

He moves back to Madrid and nothing has changed. Well that’s a lie, his family has slimmed down in his absence, but he doesn’t expect it to last.

~

“Juan! Taste this cream puff. Tell me, was I too heavy on the matcha flavor?” Fernando begs and hands over the goods. Oriol crosses his arms and pouts a bit. Fernando gives in and hands one over to him as well.

“Well.” Juan says, and then licks the edge of his mouth where some cream lingered. “It was superb.”

“You don’t think the bitterness of the matcha overpowers the chocolate glaze?” Fernando frowns and stares at his latest batch of cream puffs in deep concentration.

“Everything you make is wonderful.” Oriol reassures his boss. He finishes his cream puff in two bites and contemplates the possibility of wheedling another one out of Fernando. “Then again, we’re two university students living on instant noodles, so it shouldn’t be too hard of an improvement.”

“I lived on stale baguette and past ripe cheese in Paris. Students have the same life where ever they are” Fernando retorts and swats away the hand reaching for another cream puff.

“Speaking of cheese, customers have been asking for your cheese croissants again.” Juan tells him.

Fernando sighs, “I’m still experimenting with the cheese to dough ratio. I haven’t found the perfect baking cheese for that yet.”

“Oh Nando, you’re such a perfectionist.” Oriol chastises him even though he’s four years younger.

More frowning, “I just want Pâtisserie el Niño to be successful. Do you know how many businesses fold within the first two years?”

“Ninety percent.” Juan answers promptly, the ever-diligent business student.

Fernando throws a kitchen rag at him. “Not helping! Go arrange the bread by size of air bubbles.” He also asks Oriol to go pick up some more buttermilk at the market. Left alone in the kitchen, he looks at his cream puffs, and decides to go for another batch with yuzu filling instead.

~

It’s a slow Tuesday afternoon. Fernando is waiting for some dough to rise when a long-haired stranger bursts into his shop.

“Hey! Where is your back exit?” He asks and pushes his way behind the counter.

“What do you think you’re doing!” Fernando’s not a violent man, but won’t let himself be pushed around in his own store. If his pastries are threatened in any way, he’s got a couple extra inches and a very sharp dough scraper close by.

“Please!” the other man begs him. “There are people following me.”

“Fine. Don’t touch anything.” Fernando really doesn’t want to get mixed up in whatever is happening here. He figures it’s best just to let the guy leave, rather than arguing about it. He grabs the other man’s jacket (horrifically green with patches of demin) and escorts him past counters smeared with flour.

“What’s that?” the stranger asks, as they walk past a tray of cupcakes.

Fernando stops. “You don’t know what a cupcake is?” He’s not quite convinced that this isn’t a dream.

“I know what a cupcake is.” He scowls. “Why is yours red and blue? Are you a culé?”

“It’s a blueberry thyme cake base with candied lingonberry frosting.” Fernando explains. “Everyone pairs blueberry with stone fruits, but I find that the tartness of the lingonberry really highlights the subtle blueberry flavor.”

“Right.” The man raises a skeptical eyebrow and turns to leave. “Thanks for letting me use your back door.”

“Here.” Fernando shoves a cupcake into his hands, “I think you might like it.”

Minutes later, a gaggle of pushy people with cameras enter the shop. “Did Sergio Ramos come in here?”

Fernando wipes his hands on his apron. “Who?”

The crowd leaves without buying anything.

~

“You had Sergio Ramos in the store?” Juan looks like a kid on Christmas.

Oriol is impressed too, though he is frowning.

“You guys know him? Is he some kind of criminal? He came in here cause he was being chased and I let him out the back.”

“Sergio Ramos. Spain international and defender for Real Madrid. One of the most expensive domestic transfers in Spain. He was bought as a teenager from Sevilla for twenty seven million euros. Oh, and there’s that sex tape too.” Juan’s looks incredulously at Fernando. “He’s on the cover of Marca half naked every other week. How do you not know who he is?”

Oriol explains, “Juan is a huge madidrista here. Ignore him.”

“Well. Do you know who Dominique Ansel is?” Fernando asks.

Blank stares all around.

“Exactly.” And that’s the end of that.

~

“Your cupcake was amazing, despite the unfortunate blaugrana coloring.” A shadow steps out of the alley behind the bakery.

Fernando holds up the cardboard he was taking out as some sort of a shield. He lowers it when he sees who it is. “Sergio Ramos.”

“You know who I am!” He sounds disappointed.

“It’s hard not to when paparazzi come into my shop asking for you.” Fernando retorts while folding up the boxes neatly. “Besides, the shop boys are fans.”

Sergio simultaneous grins while sticks out his lower lip to pout. “Too bad. It’s more fun when they don’t know who I am. My manager would kill me if he knew I broke the diet list.”

“Diets.” Fernando rolls his eyes.

“Got to keep the body nice somehow.” Sergio lifts up his shirt and traces the contour of where his hips dip down low.

Fernando doesn’t stare, well pretends not to. It doesn’t work because his cheeks are definitely flaming, and the infuriating guy in front of him is smirking like he knows exactly where Fernando’s mind is going. A timer goes off, and he’s never been more relieved to snap out of it.

“Come in. Try my lavender pot au crème.” He invites, expecting to be turned down.

Surprisingly, Sergio follows him in. And that’s really how it starts.

~

After that, Sergio starts dropping by with unpredictable frequency. At first he comes in disguise, half of his face under an obnoxious trucker hat and or a neon scarf with sequins. It doesn’t really matter though; the only ones who recognize him are the neighborhood boys that come in because Fernando caves easily when it comes to children. There’s always a basket of mini polvorón for them by the counter, and never says anything when they leave sugary handprints on his display case.

“I really like it here,” comments Sergio, sitting at one of the tables with a slice of eleven-layer opera cake. “It seems like your customers and football fans are mutually exclusive.”

“My customers have good taste.” Fernando retorts.

“Exactly, that’s why I find it so surprising. I haven’t been able to sit at a café unbothered for years.” He doesn’t mention that before he found el Niño, he hardly went out during the day; it’s so much easier to hide your identity in dark shadowy clubs.

~

Sometimes Sergio sits in the back and just watches.

Today Fernando is rolling out puff pastry for miguelitos. Sergio is fascinated by how his fingers gently caresses the dough, how he rubs each layer with butter, running his hands over any bumps. He has so many fantasies about what those hands can do to him.

He doesn’t say anything though. He doesn’t disrupt the bond Fernando’s has with the dough. For the first time, Sergio wishes he knew how to cook, if only so he could be part of that moment too.

~

“He totally likes you.” Oriol tells him.

“He better, we feed him.” Fernando retorts. “Do you realize he hasn’t been charged for a single item? What are we running, a food shelter for millionaire footballers?”

“I think. If you start charging him, he would still like you.” Juan says slowly.

His boss scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a football star, and into girls. You guys should know, I know you guys were giggling at his sex tape last month.”

“You can never be sure with Sergio. He’s very open with his affections.” Oriol points out.

“Exactly, he’s just being affectionate with me as he would with his garbage man.” Fernando makes some scattering motions. “Get back to work, you’re disturbing the soufflé.”

Juan gives him a long look, “Oh Nando, you really have to work on your self-esteem if you’re comparing yourself to the garbage man.”

~

Real Madrid plays Barcelona on a Sunday night and loses 5-0. When Fernando arrives at el Niño the next morning, Sergio is camped out in the back doorway with an empty bottle of tequila in front of him.

“I was craving gougéres, but you weren’t open.” He slurs with eyes too bright and sad.

“Sergio…” He doesn’t know what to do (dealing with attractive and drunk footballers was not on the curriculum in pastry school). “Come in.” He has to half drag, half carry the shorter man into his kitchen. He tries not to react to the hard planes of muscle pressing against his body.

He sets a glass of water beside the man and commands him to drink while Sergio mumbles about how heavy the Real Madrid crest was. By the time Fernando has started the bread, Sergio is fast asleep on the floor, curled around bags of flour as a makeshift bed.

Juan has the first shift that day, and he lights up when he sees who else is in the kitchen. Between customers, he comes to the back and winks at Fernando a lot. But the latter is so thrown off by the sleeping man in his kitchen that he ends up overworking his dough, and all the loaves come out more limp than usual (Oriol assures him that customers can’t taste the difference anyways).

He wasn’t planning on it, but he mixes up some choux pastry dough on a whim. During a lull, he sends Juan to the market to buy a chunk of Gruyère.

“You know that’s Sergio’s favorite cheese.” The younger man wisely informs him.

“It’s also the best cheese to balance out the dough.” Fernando tries to explain himself. He can’t help ask, “How do you even know what his favorite cheese is?”

Juan has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “It was in his latest Men’s Health interview.”

Sergio wakes up around lunchtime, to the smell of quiche lorraine coming out of the ovens. He gets up with effort and for once, Fernando can’t discern the expression on his face.

“Want me to drive you home?” he asks quietly.

The footballer shakes his head, hair obscuring his face. “Stay. Everyone will be so unhappy if you run out of sweets because of me.”

Fernando walks the other man out, all the way to the sidewalk where a gaping cabdriver is waiting. He hands over a box with the pâtisserie logo on it and gives Sergio a hug. “I want you to be happy too.” He whispers.

Sergio waits until he gets home before he opens the box. Inside are a dozen gougéres. He pops one into his mouth, they’re crispy and salty and just like how he likes it.

~

“You’re closing for two weeks?” Sergio tries to keep the panic out of his voice.

Fernando keeps on decorating Yule logs with meringue mushrooms dusted with cocoa powder. “Yeah. Monday before Christmas to the Monday after New Year’s.”

“But.” Sergio waves the spatula that he was licking. “What if people need pastries?”

Fernando laughs, “Then they better pre-order and stock up.”

“What if you get rusty, from the break?”

“I won’t. Going to be cooking for the family, and all the in-laws are coming this year too. I can’t wait to see them all. One of them owns a free-range poultry farm and promised me two heritage turkeys.”

Sergio doesn’t usually whine. “That’s not fair. I want to be part of your family.” (The thing is, he can envision himself sitting down with Fernando’s siblings at a giant table straining with food.)

“Aren’t you going back to Sevilla for the holidays?”

He shakes his head sadly, “We have a game on boxing day and the day after New Year’s. Everything is being held at my Grandma’s this year and I wont make it back in time.”

Fernando makes a sympathetic noise and slides him a slice of glazed Christmas pudding. “That sucks. At least your team will all be sticking around too, you can hang out with them.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

On Christmas Day, Sergio knows better but drives past the bakery anyways. There’s a sign wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. He hopes Fernando is enjoying it enough for the both of them.

~

“New girl?” Iker asks him after practice one day.

Sergio stops changing and stares at his best friend. “No? Why do you think that?”

“You hardly come out with us after practice anymore. And there hasn’t been any picture of you clubbing in a while.” The goalkeeper pinches a bit of his abs and twists. “Plus, you’ve gotten little pudgy. Girlfriend must be great in the kitchen.”

“Ouch!” He whips his sweaty training shorts at his friend. “You take that back!”

Of course, Iker catches it and drops it on ground. “That you got fat or that you have a girlfriend?”

“Both!” Sergio scowls. “I haven’t gained any weight or a girl.”

That day he lets Marcelo and Mesut drag him to some overpopulated café where the waitress fawns over them like battered puppies. He orders a sandwich, but has to put it down every two bites to sign autographs. By the time he’s halfway through, the mayo has completely soaked through the bread so he discards the rest. His friends are equally displeased with their food and ask him to pick where to go for dessert.

He thinks about el Niño for a brief moment but then says, “I don’t know any good places.”

~

Juan and Oriol both show up to work one day, claiming to have mixed up their schedules. He takes one look at their faces and tells them sternly that whatever they’re up to, it better not jeopardize his bakery in any way. The two devils just giggle and tell him to hurry up with the day’s inventory.

He’s pulling out the last batch of French rolls when he hears a car pull up in front. Sergio comes bounding in seconds later and shoves a white bundle into his arms. “Come on, you can change in the car.”

Fernando opens the bundle and it turns out to be a jersey. A Real Madrid jersey with the number 4 emblazoned on the back. “No fucking way.” He crosses his arm and gives the toughest face he can (he imagines a picky eater throwing out one of his cakes). “I can’t just leave my store to watch a football game.”

“Come on…” Sergio whines. “Juan and Oriol are both here and the cases are filled.” He grabs Fernando from behind and tries to manhandle him towards the car, but the older man fights back.

“I have orders to fill!” He exclaims. “The mayor’s commissioned a cake for his daughter’s debutante ball, do you realize who’s going to be eating my cake?”

Sergio leans forward, still hanging on tightly. “Please?” he whispers so closely that Fernando can feel the lips at his ear. “I just want you to see what I do, since I’ve been watching you work your magic.”

He knows he should be responsible and say no, but Fernando doesn’t and follows the other man to his car. He refuses to wear the jersey, even though Sergio spends the whole car ride persuading him. He only slips it on after they split up, him going into the VIP box while the other man joins his team.

When the players walks out of the tunnel, Fernando knows the exact moment the footballer sees him, because his smile, right then, feels like it can light up the whole Santiago Bernabéu. Fernando tells himself that he’s only smiling in case he gets caught on camera.

~

Sergio only brings someone else to el Niño once.

Her name is Lara Alvarez and he met her at a Real Madrid charity function that she was covering. She is definitely his type, dark haired and eyes that stay crinkled no matter the occasion.

It happens after a date. They attend a play and end up smiling more for the cameras than for each other. Lara had been craving something sweet after. She turns out to be a self-acclaimed foodie and went on a long rant about how the culture of Spanish sweets is being overtaken by American cake pops. She also complains about how there isn’t a single good pastry shop in Madrid.

He just wants her to shut up, and to prove her wrong. He knows he’s made a mistake as soon as they enter.

“Can I help you?” Fernando asks politely.

Sergio mentally kicked himself. Of course he would come the one time Fernando was out front. “Hi.” He stammers out while Lara continues chattering about how decadent everything looks.

Juan sticks out his head from where he was sweeping the kitchen and blatantly glares.

“Are you the pâtissier here?” She inquires.

Fernando gives her a tight smile. “Yes I am.”

“Oh your store looks absolutely amazing.” She gushes. “I can’t wait to taste everything.”

Lara ends up ordering half a dozen items, asking them to be packaged to go. “Oh Sergio, let’s just indulge at your place.” She sends him a sultry smile that makes it clear what else she’d like to indulge in.

Sergio awkwardly pulls out his wallet to pay, but the pastry chef refuses without meeting his eyes.

“It’s on the house. Please, I hope you two enjoy them.”

He want’s to say something. He feels like he should, but doesn’t know what. Something in Sergio tells him to apologize, but before he could come with anything, Lara is already dragging him out the shop.

~

One day the patisserie door opens and René Redzepi walks in. He asks for the owner, and Fernando immediately recognizes who’s in his shop when he pokes his head out of the kitchen.

To the amusement of his staff, he blushes and stammers as be brings the guest a sample of every item in the shop, even the experimental creations that he was just messing around with. He stays for a couple hours, and they chat. They discuss everything from Fernando’s experiences in Paris, to the role of desserts in Nordic cuisine to the rise of cereal milk as an ingredient.

At Chef Redzepi’s request, they go into his kitchen and Fernando demonstrates his version of rødgrød med fløde, served on top of a risalamande. His guest is very impressed and compliments the flavor profile he’s come up with. He also offers Fernando a job.

Fernando spends the entire afternoon with burning cheeks and a bounce in his steps.

~

“Noma! Can you believe it? The best chef in the world asked me to join him.” He relates the entire story to Sergio.

“What’s he doing here, not enough pastry chefs in Denmark?” Sergio asks.

“He’s giving a talk at the Madrid Food and Wine festival tomorrow. He gave me a pass.” Fernando is absolutely beaming.

“So you’re going?” He studies Fernando’s face. He’s fairly sure that Fernando has a new freckle at the left corner of his lips.

“Of course! You don’t turn down a chance to see René Redzepi in person.”

“No.” Sergio pauses. “Are you going to Denmark?”

Fernando stops rolling out the clafouti. “I don’t know.”

“What does your heart say?” Sergio asks (and not just about the job).

“That it could be a big chance for me.” He admits. “What do you think should I do Sergio?”

He wants to say, “Stay in Madrid, and feed me for the rest of my life” or simply “I don’t want you to go.” He wants to just say a lot of things, but he doesn’t.

“Madrid will miss your pastries.” (When he really means I will miss you.)

Later, he tells himself that he turned it down because it was logistically unfeasible. He hasn’t finished paying the mortgage on his shop and how could Oriol and Juan finish university without a job. He stays because Fernando Torres doesn’t let his projects go half-finished.

~

It’s cold in South Africa. It’s cold because he’s on the wrong continent with the wrong seasons and he still has to play.

Iker makes him room with Gerard Pique, because they’ve only played against each other and now they’re supposed to be the best center-back pairing in the tournament. He doesn’t have anything against the Barcelona man off the pitch, but they have absolutely nothing in common. He’s always gone in Cesc and Puyol’s room anyways.

He would usually hang out with Iker, but he’s busy with all his extra captain duties. Xabi brought along his wife and kids. Raul and Alvaro might as well be a married couple, because they disappear into their shared room after practices and nobody sees them except at meal times. And then there are the Barcelona players, and the random mismatched players like Villa and Silva who he is friendly is, but they’re not really friends.

He flips through his phone and sees whom he can call. Rene. His mother. The housekeeper who feeds Odee when he’s away. Fernando.

There’s a building urge in his stomach when he sees that name. He chalks it up to the fact that he hasn’t had a decent slice of bread in weeks and right now he’s craving for a slice of Fernando’s ciabatta.

He thinks about calling el Niño to ask if they ship to South Africa, mostly just to hear Fernando’s voice.

He flips shut his phone.

~

The patisserie is thriving and Fernando has a hard time keeping up with demand. He accepts an aspiring pastry chef to stage at his patisserie. César is keen and inquisitive with a good touch for dough. He also gets along great with Juan and Oriol. Fernando couldn’t have chosen a better assistant.

Sergio is not as pleased.

“César like the salad?” he asks the first time he is introduced.

César smiles with his perfect teeth. “Yes, just like that.” And then he goes on to give a long exposition on how the salad is actually a Mexican dish invented by an Italian-American.

When the new boy (because referring to him by name only validates that he’s staying) is out running deliveries, Sergio whines about it to Fernando.

“Seriously, who names their kid after a salad? Do they want the kid to be beaten up everyday at school?”

Fernando smiles as he gently pipes madeleines into a seashell mould, “He seems like he was fine at school, top of the graduating class at the Madrid Culinary Institute.”

“But still! Why didn’t you hire someone more experienced?” He tries to snag a cooling financier, but Fernando shots him a look so hostile that he pulls his hand back. You can’t get away with anything in his kitchen.

“You have to give the young ones chances, or else they’ll learn bad habits and never develop the right touch.”

Sergio grumbles something about inappropriate touching that Fernando doesn’t make out because César has returned. He finds himself kicked out of the kitchen because three’s a crowd and folding custard only takes two. Juan sends him a sympathetic look that he ignores and storms out, making a note to only visit when that new kid isn’t working.

~

Sergio’s favorite moments are on the pitch running with the Real Madrid crest. Off the pitch though, it’s in the back kitchen of el Niño.

Sometime mornings (never on game days), Sergio joins Fernando in the kitchen before the patisserie is even open, before the sun is even up. He never asks when Sergio is there when arrives, just letting him sit closer than usual to watch.

Fernando spends his time working the dough, getting the first order of bread ready so customers can have it hot and fresh for breakfast. There’s something soothing, the way Fernando flips the dough over and over. Even through the t-shirt and the apron, Sergio can see the strong curve of muscle each time he presses into the dough.

He loves it when Fernando whisks cream by hand, the swish of stainless steel coming together and the cyclical rotation of his wrist. He wants to run his finger down that arm, past the sleeves, and see if the trail of freckles continues everywhere.

These moments are sacred, as proven when Fernando doesn’t even chastise him when he sneaks a finger into the cream for a taste.

~

“That Sergio guy doesn’t seem to like me.” César confides glumly to Juan and Oriol one day.

“Of course not.” The latter shoots him a look. “He’s jealous that you and Nando cuddle ever so closely when he shows you how to temper chocolate.”

“Or the way he holds your hands when pouring canéles.” Adds Juan.

“What!” César flaps his arm around wildly. “He thinks I have something going on with my boss?”

Oriol laughs, “That or he thinks you want to kill him and take over the shop.”

“Wait.” César is still confused. “Why would he be jealous?”

“Oh my god, you’re as oblivious as Nando.” Juan gasps.

“It must be a chef thing.” Oriol nods sagely.

~

“I need a favor.” Sergio asks one day, face schooled in rare seriousness.

“Sure, what is it?” Fernando asks while flipping crêpes.

“I need you to make me a wedding cake.”

For the first time since Fernando mastered crêpe at the age of six, the next one completely misses the pan.

~

Of course Fernando agrees. He never once considers refusing, even though he has plenty of reasons to do so. The waiting list for a wedding cake from el Niño is currently at sixteen months and it would be bad business to prioritize Sergio’s cake before the other customers. He does it anyways.

Sergio tells him the bride likes citrus and espresso, other than that, he gives Fernando complete control over what the cake will be like.

“I told her that I’d take care of the cake.” He tells the chef excitedly. “She didn’t trust me at first, but between the flowers, and organizing the bridesmaids, and the invitations, she didn’t have much of a choice.”

Fernando a noise of general agreement.

“Hey, you’ll come right?” Sergio asks. “Everyone will want to meet the chef who made the best wedding cake in the world.”

“I have the shop.” Fernando demurs. “I’ll make sure one of the boys delivers it on time though.”

“Please?” Sergio is begging. “I really want you there.”

Just like the cake request that got Fernando into this mess in the first place, he doesn’t say no.

~

“Okay guys.” Juan whispers conspiratorially to Oriol and César one day. “We need to do something.” The whispering is completely unnecessary, as Fernando is giving a baking demonstration all the way across town.

“I can dose the cake.” Oriol suggests. “A cup of liquid laxatives into the fondant.”

“No.” argues Juan. “That will just make all the guests sick too.”

“Exactly!” he grins. “Then they won’t be able to continue the wedding.”

“I don’t know if you know how weddings work, but they tend to eat the cake after the vows.” César interjects.

“What about just poisoning his coffee next time he comes.” Oriol tries again.

“Can we poison some other food and make him eat it?” César suggests. “I don’t want it linked to our shop.”

“That’s it!” Juan snaps in excitement. “We’ll put rat poison in something from that pretentious Italian bakery two blocks down and pass it off as one of ours. Two birds with one stone, taking out competition and Sergio at the same time!”

“Do you think…” César says slowly, “that the boss will cheer up if Sergio is dead?”

~

The day of the wedding comes and the cake is ready. Actually, Fernando finished it two days ago, just in case. He wants this day to be perfect for Sergio.

He brings a suit to the store and changes after making sure all the cases and bread bins are filled. He triple checks the cake, and has to stop himself from trying to flatten imaginary ripples in the fondant. His hands are shaking, as he knots his tie and Juan has to wipe all the flour on his face that he missed.

There is a great deal of oohing and exclamations as he wheels the cake in. It’s seven tiered, and covered with sugar cherry blossoms cascading down like a waterfall. Each layer is a different citrus chiffon: lemon, Satsuma, grapefruit with generous spread of mocha buttercream in between. It’s Fernando’s proudest creation, but it is also his saddest.

Sergio finds him after he finishes unloading the cake. “I’m so glad that you’re here!” He gives Fernando a hug and the latter freezes.

“I’m glad to be here.” He says, even though it’s a lie, and Fernando’s always been a horrible liar.

His friend catches on. “Hey. What’s wrong.” He grips Fernando’s chin so that they can have eye contact. His friend looks troubled.

“I just.” Fernando’s voice cracks, similar to the state of his heart. “I want you happy.”

Sergio is confused. “We’re at a wedding. Of course I’m happy.”

“I know you’re happy.” Fernando pauses for a second and takes a quick glance around, but the reception area is empty as everyone is waiting in the church. He continues quickly, “I want you to be this happy for the rest of your life. But please, don’t come see me again. And don’t hate me for this.”

He cups Sergio’s face gently and presses his lips to his. Two seconds pass too quickly and Fernando forces himself to break away. “Goodbye.” He whispers and turns to leave.

He’s made it halfway to the delivery van when Sergio catches up to him and grabs him by the arm. “You can’t just kiss me and ask me not to see you again.” He shouts.

Fernando stares at the ground and tries to blink away the moisture in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t be sorry.” Sergio grabs him and this time he’s the one initiating lip-to-lip contact. His kiss is the complete opposite of Fernando’s, hard and sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted. They break off and Sergio traces the line of freckles outlining his damp cheekbone. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying Nando?”

“No, don’t.” Fernando pushes him away and sobs out, “You can’t cheat on your fiancée.”

“What are you talking about?” Sergio is absolutely bewildered.

He looks up all teary-eyed. “The cake for your bride.”

“Oh my god.” And Sergio starts shaking, though not before he pulls Fernando close so he can feel every tremor running through his body. After a minute, he stops. “The cake is for Miriam, my sister. She’s getting married today.”

Fernando’s mouth opens to an o, but nothing comes out. That’s okay, because Sergio takes the chance to kiss him again.

He spends the entire wedding with Sergio, lacing their hands together when the couple exchanges their vows and Sergio starts sniffling.

“I can’t believe it took until you thought I was getting married before you made a move!” He whispers as they twirl on the dance floor. Fernando answers with gentle kisses on his neck and Sergio shuts up.

~

These days, Sergio wakes up to a plate of warm lemon ricotta crepes. There’s an empty space in the bed next to him, because Fernando has to get up early to start the dough. That’s okay, even though Fernando’s never here when he wakes up, the most important part is that this is where he comes home at night, this is where they fall asleep together.

 

 

 

 

**Epilogue:**

 

“Omg my eyes!” Juan screams and drops the empty trays he was bringing back.

Oriol quickly pulls Juan out of the kitchen. “Oh please, I bet you’ve seen worse.” Still, he reassuringly rubs circles on Juan’s back.

“The éclairs need to be filled in twelve minutes!” César yells out helpfully.

Sergio turns back to where he’s pressing Fernando against the counter, naked except for the apron. “Don’t worry, we won’t need twelve minutes.” He nips around Fernando’s ear and thrusts until the other man can only see star-shaped cookies and sprinkles.

**Author's Note:**

>  **PS.** The utterly wonderful and amazing [mysponnis2big4u](http://myspoonis2big4u.livejournal.com/) who somehow operates on the same frequency as me also wrote pastrychef!Nando for the holiday exchange, you can read it [here](http://fbslashmod.livejournal.com/20326.html). It’s scary how alike we are isn’t it?
> 
>  
> 
> **PPS.** The original pastrychef!Nando fic that I’ve read is “[the one where Sergio and Fernando open a bakery](http://cookingontherun.livejournal.com/19121.html)” by the lovely [myscheherazade](http://myscheherazade.livejournal.com/) and I shamelessly stole a line from it as a tribute. Kudos if you recognize that line.


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